It's No Go The Merry-go-round, It's No

A Fortress Against Ideas And Against The Shuddering Insidious Shock Of The Theory-vendors The Little Sardine Men Crammed In A Monster Toy Who Tilt Their Aggregate Beast Against Our Crumbling Troy.

September Has Come, It Is Hers Whose Vitality Leaps In The Autumn, Whose Nature Prefers Trees Without Leaves And A Fire In The Fireplace. So I Give Her This Month And The Next Though The Whole Of My Year Should Be Hers Who Has Rendered Already So Many Of Its Days Intolerable Or Perplexed But So Many More So Happy. Who Has Left A Scent On My Life, And Left My Walls Dancing Over And Over With Her Shadow Whose Hair Is Twined In All My Waterfalls And All Of London Littered With Remembered Kisses.

World Is Crazier And More Of It Than We Think, Incorrigibly Plural.

The Sunlight On The Garden Hardens And Grows Cold, We Cannot Cage The Minute Within Its Nets Of Gold

Let Them Not Make Me A Stone And Let Them Not Spill Me, Otherwise Kill Me.